


Thawed

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Memories, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Mess, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23839843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After Sherrinford, a furious Sherlock storms into Mycroft's house.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 20
Kudos: 195





	Thawed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Woke up in the morning with a burning urge to write.  
> Written in one go before breakfast.

Fury. It courses through his arteries – consuming every molecule of his body as it perfuses through his tissues. Burning like dry ice. 

He unlocks the front door. He flings it open, and strides in. What the hell had Mycroft been thinking? To have the right to manipulate him like that? Did he really think that Sherlock had so little regard – so little care for him that Sherlock could shoot him without remorse in cold blood? He storms into the living room, where Mycroft is already standing. In a blink of an eye, his hands are already gripping onto the opened collar of Mycroft’s battered shirt and they are shaking him. Shaking him with vigour. His legs are moving. One after another. They stop when big brother’s back hits a wall with an audible  _ thud. _

Why isn’t Mycroft fighting back? Their eyes meet – and there is something unfathomable in big brother’s normally cool icy blue eyes. It’s not exasperation. It’s not disappointment. Those are things in Mycroft’s eyes that Sherlock is well-acquainted with over the previous years. There is… sadness? Resignation? And that – whatever it is – that he had seen back in Sherrinford. He releases Mycroft’s shirt, his hands dropping limply to his sides. As quickly as the anger had flared, it had diminished. 

It takes him back. A long while back. Confused. Hurt. Sad. A little boy looking at big brother. Victor had disappeared then. His eyes brimming with unshed tears. They are in the kitchen? He is unsure. Mycroft kneeling in front of him to mitigate the height difference, his much larger hand gently stroking his cheek – murmuring something soothing to him. And then – the little boy had jumped back and demanded angrily – ‘Why!?!’. Why indeed? Why is Eurus the way she is and was? Why did such cruelties manifest amongst the innocent? Why had Mycroft tried to get Sherlock to shoot him? Why, why – and why? 

“Why? Why did you – Mycroft – I…” His throat feels parched. “I-I couldn’t have.” 

Some unknown emotion seems to have taken control of him. All these feelings. These sensations. It’s as if Sherrinford had broken something in him. Broken the ice that had encased his heart. Thawed out his limbic system. Returned something back to him that he hadn’t known that had been missing. All that rationality – to be able to reason devoid of feeling – that he had prided upon had been a farce. Perhaps, a well constructed lie in a glass palace? A fragile glass manufactured from deceit?

His brother doesn’t speak. It is as if Mycroft could see what is going on in Sherlock’s head. Nor does he move. Sherlock watches the rise and fall of big brother’s chest. Inhale. Exhale. It is constant. Reassuring. 

Not boring at all. 

The child in Sherlock’s mind had broken down crying. And he sees Mycroft – ever so reliable Mycroft – shuffle over to the young boy and holds him in his arms. There is even a kiss to the forehead. A fond one. Mycroft had always been there. To do whatever that had been needed. 

And suddenly, his brain is flooded with torrents of memory. Of laughter. Mischief. Of him following big brother around their childhood estate. Trips to the beach nearby during the summer. Ice cream. Playing with dogs at the local petting zoo. The happiness in them is alien to Sherlock. And he realizes. Eurus’ jealousy – for he had eschewed her company for Mycroft’s and even Victor’s – had led her to do the unthinkable. Did she foresee that he – Sherlock – would numb himself to all feeling during the construction of defenses to protect himself? Mycroft had said things to him like ‘caring is a disadvantage’ and ‘your loss would break my heart’ over the years. Eurus had not liked Mycroft as she had liked him. In fact – now that Sherlock thinks about it with his newfound memories – she had almost… despised him. Hated him for monopolizing Sherlock’s attention. And that had been the game at the end, hadn’t it? To get Sherlock to choose between John and Mycroft. To get him to kill the person that had always been there for him, even when he hadn’t wanted him to be. Fucking Moriarty had gotten off on that – hadn’t he? Knowing that even if he loses the game… he would eventually win the war? 

Hell.

That isn’t all, isn’t it? That look they had shared. If Sherlock had been a fanciful person – he would have said that Mycroft had bared his soul at that moment. It had been something beyond brotherly feeling. Mycroft had never hit back against him – even when Sherlock had been violent and completely out of his mind with heroin, or cocaine – or whatever the drug du jour had been. ‘I am not lonely.’ Mycroft had said when Sherlock had returned from the dead, plucking little pieces of plastic from a board with a pair of tweezers. Did he need any more evidence? Really? Mycroft picking him up and carrying him over his shoulder out of the most sordid of drug dens. Big brother standing next to him in numerous hospital beds. Mycroft cleaning up his vomit and god knows what else in the loo – his bespoke sleeves rolled up. Sherlock resting his head in his lap, while a hand caresses sweat-drenched curls. Learning a new language in a handful of hours and descending upon Serbia to do legwork.  _ Legwork! _ For the first time in who knows how fucking long. The twelve labours of Heracles. The labours of… love? All toil and no reward. 

God. Really, Mycroft? 

Mycroft is still standing. Like the stalwart he is. Like one of the suits of armour that stands guard over his house. But there is a crack. His eyes. The subtle darkening of his irises. Worry. Concern. Sentiment. He knows. He knows that Sherlock knows. Words are wasted between them. A leisurely pastime for lesser minds. A means of having two conversations going on at once, if not more. They say. ‘You see? You understand? You know the truth now. Everything.’ 

A step forward closes the gap. Cologne. Dried sweat. Tea. Even a tumbler of whiskey. Mycroft’s tie is askew. Sherlock reaches up and forwards. His fingers lightly press on the left carotid – feeling the pulse beat under his skin. It quickens. Not fear. Pupils are dilated. Arousal. He slides his hand down, his fingers caress the silk of the tie. He tugs, Mycroft goes willingly. For where little brother goes, the older one follows. A gentle brush of lips. Mycroft’s hand is suddenly at Sherlock’s cheek – like it had been all those years ago. A finger strokes deliberately over a zygomatic arch, and the kiss deepens. Lips intermingling, tracing contours – mapping and claiming new territory. They break to breathe. Necessary, but a hindrance. Frenzied kisses. Mycroft nips at an earlobe, causing Sherlock to gasp. 

Too many clothes. 

The next thing Sherlock perceives is that he’s being pushed down on a bed that evidently no one had slept on in who knows how damned long. His brother crawls on top of him – straddling his thighs. They kiss and tussle – making a mess in their wake. Mycroft is naked. So incandescently so. Pale skin. So much fur. Lean muscles underneath the flesh. Definitely not fat. Not even overweight. 

Brilliant.

Sherlock eventually capitulates after both are sweating and panting. Mycroft had loved him too long from afar. It’s only fair. He can afford to give. Mycroft’s touch is gentle – worshipful. Sherlock arches into every caress, savours every kiss. Every scar is explored. Violence and pain is covered over with care and affection. Even regret. 

‘You tried your best.’ Sherlock tries to convey, but Mycroft shakes his head. ‘Not good enough.’ Sherlock’s hands are everywhere, trying to touch whatever flesh he could reach. But Mycroft eventually pins his roving hands down and says quietly his first words since Sherlock had stepped into the house – his breath warm against Sherlock’s pinna – sending frissons down his nerves. 

“Let me.” 

Mm… Sherlock is lost in sensation. So many erogenous zones. His neck which Mycroft had left what is sure to be bruising kisses. His earlobe. His nipples, his umbilicus – the sensitive skin of his sides, his inner thighs. Not an inch is left unturned. And he cries out when Mycroft engulfs his hard weeping cock in the warm cavern that is his mouth – the pleasure too much, and yet, perhaps not enough. Fingers stroke his scrotum, before sneaking to his perineum, causing Sherlock’s hips to buck uncontrollably – but Mycroft somehow takes it all in stride. His prick is released from Mycroft’s mouth with an obscene slurpy sort of noise and all sorts of moans and groans and unintelligible noises are issued from Sherlock’s own mouth when a fingertip circles his perianal area, and presses firmly against that most secretive orifice that really, no brother should ever touch. Oh god. But then again neither of them had ever been good at following arbitrary rules. 

Mycroft looks up at him, while rubbing at his rim. “Would you let me? Someday?”

Sherlock nods, and Mycroft climbs back up to cover his face with kisses. 

“Why not today?” Sherlock asks verbally with a modicum of disappointment, and Mycroft actually laughs. And laughs. It’s probably the most beautiful sight that Sherlock had seen in a long long time. 

“No lubricant, little brother. We didn’t quite make it to my bedroom.”

“Pity.”

“Pity, indeed.” Mycroft smiles at him before returning back to Sherlock’s neglected cock. He strokes the shaft, making sure to put just a little more pressure at the head, causing Sherlock to twist and turn. But not enough for him to cum.

“God, Mycroft – you tease!” 

“Another title to add to my business card.”

“Not funny!” 

And Sherlock gasps when Mycroft’s own hot prick comes into contact with his own, and his brother gathers the mess of saliva and precum and uses it to lubricate both their cocks. Mycroft frigs them both, steadily and slowly – never once taking his eyes away from Sherlock’s face. Despite all his experiences, Sherlock had never ever witnessed such inexplicable pleasure. The planes of Mycroft’s face seem to soften as they climb closer to the peak. This is what love feels like. Looks like. It fills Sherlock with a queasy sort of feeling in his chest; now knowing the burden of the secret that his brother had carried so long. Alongside all the other burdens that he had carried over the years. And with the knowledge of how he had treated Mycroft so cruelly over the years.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft breathes, his breathing growing increasingly ragged. “Sherlock… look at me.”

He does. It’s like looking at the sun. 

“God, brother… If I had to go tomorrow, I would die a happy man.” Mycroft whispers. 

“Myc –” 

“Too soon?” His brother chuckles apologetically. “Oh Sherlock. Sherlock…” His brother leans forward to cup his cheek with his free hand and kisses him fiercely, while his other hand increases the speed and friction of his strokes. 

“So close, Myc – feels so good…” Sherlock moans almost brokenly. “Please…”

“I know. I know. Little brother. You can let go. You can let go now. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

“Fuck –” Sherlock cums explosively, feeling as if a tsunami had crashed into him. His brother – having seen Sherlock so undone – follows suit. Both of them panting heavily. Struggling for air. Mycroft rolls to the side to avoid collapsing his entire weight on Sherlock. 

They look at each other, wearing silly little grins. 

“Fuck will have to come another day, Sherlock. I am not as young as I used to be.”

“Such appalling language.” Sherlock smirks. 

“Mm… I can make you say all sorts of nasty things. You will see.” Mycroft inches a little closer and throws a possessive arm around Sherlock’s torso. “Stay with me, tonight?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock nods happily. He hadn’t been looking forward to sleeping in John’s flat, now with Baker Street all blasted to smithereens. “And My –?”

“No, Sherlock – don’t. Don’t apologize to me. It’s not necessary. We will start anew. From the ashes.” Mycroft then says quietly. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.” 

“I am happy.” Sherlock reassures him. “I never imagined –”

“No need to imagine when we have reality. It’s much better than fantasy – I can attest to that.” Mycroft sits up, and Sherlock can see the trail of haphazardly shed clothing leading far outside.

“I just have a question.” 

“I might just have an answer.”

“Why didn’t you – try and stop me from forgetting everything? After Victor?”

“Oh Sherlock – I thought it would have been the better course of action. To let you do what your brain was already doing for you. And then, I went away to school – and before you know it – it was too late.” And then Mycroft says. “But that’s not important now. What’s important is that we are here. I am not going to question it. And there’s no guarantee that things would have worked out when we were younger. It would have been too dangerous.”

Sherlock sighs, deeply. “I know, Mycroft. Let’s shower?” 

Life is too short to dwell on what-ifs and buts. They had won. 

Mycroft follows him off to the shower. 


End file.
